


A Layover

by SapphoIsBurning



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Airports, Bottom Dean, M/M, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Top Roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9361853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/pseuds/SapphoIsBurning
Summary: Dean waits for Roman at an airport lounge, feeling in-between everything, and then he's definitely between Roman and something.





	

Dean looked at the sliding double-doors leading into the airline’s private club. He grimaced. He was dragging his same-old duct-taped suitcase and had his backpack over his shoulder. Roman had some kind of a credit card that let him go in and out of this place as much as he wanted and he got Dean a special guest pass for this trip too. But. Dean wasn’t even used to being in airports this much, let alone  _ business _ travel. This was a business, he supposed.  _ The _ business. And he, a business traveler. And so he did what he always did when he felt like he wasn’t good enough to be somewhere: he straightened his spine and faked it, looking everyone square in the eye with a speck of the same “don’t fuck with me” that kept him alive as a kid.

He walked through the doors and saw a tall marble counter in front of a private escalator. A man in a pinstriped suit with a pristine rolling bag and attaché case spoke to one lady, and a guy on the other side of the counter looked at him expectantly.

“I suppose I should give you one of these, huh,” Dean said, pulling out his creased wallet and removing the pass that Roman gave him. “The cover charge.”

“Great, thanks. I just need your boarding pass.” The man waited with a neutral expression. But at least it wasn’t a, “I’m sorry, we have a dress code” or a “we don’t serve the homeless” expression.

“Of course, my good man, of course.” Dean patted himself down looking for it, checking front pockets then back then jacket and then finally the inside chest pocket of his jacket next to his sunglasses. He presented it. The man scanned it and handed it back. “Welcome,” he said.

“You too,” Dean said then winced internally. But he stepped onto the escalator before he could dig his own hole deeper.

He got off the escalator into a shiny metal lobby with gleaming marble floors and a private customer service counter. The things that rich people kept to themselves, he thought. Then he wandered clockwise.

There was a salad bar on one side of the room and an alcove with coffee urns on the other side. In between, there were delicate cafe tables and a few easy chairs with outlets built into the side. TVs played college football, but not too loud. He turned a corner to see more of the same, with a few hallways leading off the main room, and a bar.

He headed for the bar.

“What can I get you, sir,” a perky woman with dark hair asked him. Her name tag read “Yeti.”

“Is your name really Yeti?” Dean asked without thinking, taking the Dean-Ambrose-Bait. “Oh god, wait, you probably get that all the fucking time, I’m sorry.”

She laughed politely. “That’s fine. I always say, my name is Yeti but I love the Mothman!”

Dean grinned, relaxing. He sat down at a tall chair at the bar, setting his suitcase down beside him. “Me too. Ever been to the Mothman Museum? In West Virginia?”

She shook her head as she put a cocktail napkin down in front of Dean. “No, I have not. We have a variety of drinks available for purchase as well as the house beer, wine, and cocktails,” she said.

“House.”

“Yes, they are complimentary.”

Dean perked up. He flipped to the back page of the drink menu, the free section. “Gimme a Budweiser,” he said.

In a moment, she placed a full pint glass down in front of Dean. He left a five on the bar and took the beer for a wander. He went over to the salad bar. It was...meager.

“This is the same shitty catering company that does all our west coast shows,” Dean said to himself, looking at the dried-out baby carrots and the semi-edible cheese cubes. He piled trail mix onto his plate from a dispenser that had some kind of a faucet. He wondered if he would get in trouble if he left the trail mix faucet on.

With a plate of snacks and a drink and his suitcase somehow all balanced, he holed up at a small table in a corner of the lounge, facing a TV showing the Ohio State game. There were outlets everywhere, so he plugged his phone in to charge and put his feet up on a round footstool.

It was more comfortable than sitting around the gate, but he still didn’t feel any less awkward than he always did in a space that was supposed to be comfortable.

He drank his beer and waited, eating cashews and watching people drift in and out. Old men in sport coats frowned at their laptops. Families fed cheese cubes to uncooperative toddlers. People plugged in devices, unplugged devices, spilled ice water on the floor, fretted, looked at their watches, their phones, their boarding passes. They waited.

What are airports for but waiting? They’re waiting machines, Dean thought to himself. They’re not one place or the other. Must be a weird place to work. He thought about getting up and asking Yeti some questions about it but he looked away from the TV screen to see Roman strolling in, his sunglasses up on his head, looking like a cool motherfucker as always. Dean watched him scan the room, squinting, before their eyes met. Dean tilted his head back in a nod of greeting. Roman picked his way through the tables to come over.

“Hey, babe,” Roman said, lowering his large frame into the dainty chair opposite Dean.

“Hey yourself.” Dean shoved a large handful of trail mix into his mouth.

Roman blinked. “How do you like the club?”

“The spread is garbage but I’ll never turn down a free beer,” Dean said with his mouth full.

“Dean,” Roman said conspiratorially. “They have private showers.”

“Oh, but I’m—” Dean said, then stopped. “Oh. OH.”

Roman grinned widely, leaning back on two legs of his chair. “I’ll go in first. Then you follow. I’ll wave you in.”

Dean tried to form words. His eyebrows were escaping his forehead. “What if they catch us?”

“We’ll just have to be very, very quiet,” Roman said, leaning in close. “I know that’ll be a challenge for you...”

Dean scoffed. “I’ve had sex way scarier places than an airport,” Dean said. “Like my apartment. That place is a death trap.”

Roman laughed, then pushed away from the table. He gestured with his head to a corridor leading off from the main sitting area.

Dean downed the rest of his beer in three huge swallows then set it down, a little too hard.

***

Dean looked to the right and to the left, but you know, casually, not like someone trying to engage in illicit sex in a semi-public location.

Except.

It was a private club. Private club—that makes it not public sex. Right?

He didn’t see anyone other than the guy at the desk who gave him a key to shower room number six, so he went down the hallway.

Door number five opened.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Roman said, “I was just looking for a friend.”

“I could be a friend,” Dean said in a very low voice.

“Oh, could you?” Roman said. He had a towel draped over his shoulder and he beckoned Dean into the room with his head. Dean maneuvered his suitcase in front of him and dived under Roman’s arm in a quick movement. Roman let the door swing shut behind him.

Dean leaned his suitcase against the wall near Roman’s.

“What kind of a friend you looking for?” Dean asked, putting his sunglasses back up on his head.

“Just someone to keep me company. Take care of something for me.” Roman leered.

Dean’s hands went to his own belt, and he shifted his hips. “I’m handy,” he said, laughing a little.

Roman stepped into Dean’s space, taking the glasses off his head and throwing them aside.

“Hey, I paid like nine whole dollars for those!” Dean protested. Roman ignored him, just grabbed a fistful of hair and manhandled him down into a kiss.

He sucked Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, between his teeth. The fingers of his left hand threaded through a belt loop of Dean’s jeans, pulling him in closer. Dean staggered backwards until he hit the cold wall of ceramic tile.

Roman ground his hard on against Dean. “What do you think about this,” he said.

“Hmm, couldn’t really say without looking at it,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.

“Then let’s get undressed and see,” Roman said. His pupils were dark with arousal. He reached back and pulled his hair out of the sleek bun that kept it contained, and he shook out his mane.

“Fuck,” Dean said.

Roman kept undressing with his head down and Dean just took a minute to watch. He unbuttoned his cuffs, then undid his shirt buttons one at a time, finally whipping it off and tossing it over a bench. He took off his shoes next, something leather and more expensive than anything Dean owned, maybe even his car. Ro always did have a taste for nice things. His slacks came off and then his boxer briefs, and then Dean realized he was still standing there staring, fully clothed.

“You can’t help me much like that,” Roman said, lazily giving his hard on a stroke.

“Oh, I think I can,” Dean said. He lowered himself to one knee, then the other. He bent down low to kiss the instep of Roman’s foot, his back arched.

Dean heard Roman take in a sharp breath. He kept going. He kissed Roman’s calf, then knee, then the inside of his thigh. He slid both hands up Roman’s thighs now and nosed at Roman’s cock, rubbing his cheek against it, before closing his eyes and opening his mouth.

Roman bucked his hips and Dean swayed forward, swallowing him down.

“Goddamn,” Roman said. “Goddamn, you are so pretty.” He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Look at you.”

Dean hummed as he sucked, his hands wandering around to Roman’s ass. His own cock was throbbing and trapped in his jeans, but the discomfort heightened the intensity of the encounter. He could do a lot of work from his knees.

“Use your tongue, that’s it,” Roman said, his voice a tight whisper. “Babe, oh, that’s so good.”

Dean breathed in the salty sweat of Roman’s body, immersed in the taste of him.

And then Roman pushed him away, firmly.

“No.”

Dean wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Not the kind of help you’re looking for?” He asked, sitting back on his heels, looking up at Roman with mischief.

“It’s a start,” Roman said. He grabbed something out of his bag and went over to a sliding glass door, pushing it back to reveal a shower. “But coming down your throat seems like a waste when I could be coming in that sweet ass. Get your clothes off and get in here.” He stepped into the shower and shut the door after him. Dean heard the water turn on. “And don’t make me wait,” he finished.

Dean started to get up and then fell back down on his ass, slipping on the tile. He scrambled, untying his creased old black boots, throwing off his socks and seeing a hole in the heel he never noticed before. His oldest, softest sweatshirt; a tee shirt with a bleach stain. His jeans, the same old thing. Boxers. Then he was naked except for an old chain necklace he threw on that morning for nostalgia’s sake, and he decided to leave it on.

He stood up and padded carefully to the shower, the tile cold under his bare feet.

“I’m coming in,” Dean said. He slid the door open. Seeing Roman standing under the stream of hot water made him shiver all over, his skin tingling, his nipples hardening. Roman looked at him appreciatively.

Dean stepped in. The glass door made a clacking sound on the track as he closed it. He was never real big on enclosed spaces, but something about Roman made him relax, that no matter what they got up to everything would be fine.

Roman reached out to run the back of a knuckle across Dean’s necklace. “Nice,” he said.

“It’s old.”

“I know.” Roman smiled.

“You’re not supposed to know me, I’m just a guy helping you out, right?” Dean said, nudging Roman with his forearm.

“Sorry. How’s this?” Roman slid fingers under the metal ball chain and pulled, gently, closing the distance between them by yanking Dean forward.

Dean grunted and caught Roman’s waist. They were both under the water now, Dean’s hair plastering down to his face and head. He shook it to get it out of his eyes. Roman brushed it straight back with his fingers and leered like a shark.

“I’m not sure I ever got your name,” Roman said. He kissed Dean’s neck, licking at the crease the necklace sat in.

“Dean.”

“Mmm, Dean. Got a last name?”

“Nah.”

“I’m Roman.”

“That a first name or a last name?”

“Don’t you want to know.” He kissed Dean’s mouth now, his fingers creeping down Dean’s back to caress the cheek of his ass, the crevice, to flutter across the surface of his asshole. Dean moaned.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you.”

“It’s okay.”

Roman slid the wet tip of his index finger in, just a tease, and Dean writhed.

“You need it bad, Dean. I know you hate airports.”

“What?” Dean said.

“You’re so tense. This’ll help you relax.”

“You suck at role-playing, Reigns.”

“Funny, I remember you were doing the sucking earlier. Spread your legs. Lean against the wall. That’s it.” Dean turned in Roman’s arms, catching a hold of a shiny metal bar bolted to the wall at an angle and hanging on. Dean closed his eyes and heard the click of a cap before he felt the press of Roman’s fingers, for real this time, working him. “Just breathe, baby. We’ll take care of each other’s problems tonight.”

Dean tried to do what he was told. He thought about airports as much as he tried not to. He was thinking back to the last time he stood with his nose pressed to the glass watching a jet take off, slowly and then all at once, as Roman put a hand on his shoulder and pressed in.

The burning, tingling feeling crept over Dean again, from his neck to his knees, feeling like he was on fire, like he was fire. The breath caught in his throat as Roman thrust his hips.

Brown fingers threading through his, Roman’s left arm came around as their bodies drifted closer with every thrust.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw fireworks. He was between places, he was always between places, but you could carve out a space on the road between two people. He relaxed into the familiar sounds of Roman muttering endearments and the slap of skin.

“So good,” Roman said. “Love you so much.”

Dean bit his knuckle to keep from crying out too loudly, but the force of his sobs shook his body. Roman’s slick, wet hand came around to stroke him and sensations were too much, it was all too much to hold in his head at once and he came, saying Roman’s name over and over again. Roman stroked him till he was thrashing and sensitive and then wrapped his arms around him tightly, thrusting hard short strokes until he came too.

They leaned against the tile catching their breath. Roman leaned his head down on Dean’s shoulder.

“I gotta get on a plane after that?” Dean panted.

“Not for another two hours.”

Dean sighed.

“What is it?”

“This is nice,” Dean said. “You touching me. Holding me. Nobody’s ever held me in an airport before.”

Roman tightened his embrace. “I could get used to this.”

“But when we go back outside, it’s all gone. I hate that part…it’s stupid, I know, but I do.”

Roman pulled away and came back with a soapy washcloth. The wet cloth roamed all over Dean’s body. For a bit the only sound was the shower, still running, still hot.

“Dean,” Roman said. “I will always hold you.”

“What?”

Roman rinsed the washcloth and ran it over Dean again, helping the water sluice the soap and come and dirt away. He let out a puff of a sigh.

“If you want me to hold you, I will do it. Any time, any place, as long as we are together.”

“In public?”

“You say when.”

“On tv?”

“I’m there.”

“Why?”

Roman stood under the water to rinse himself off, and in doing so, he faced Dean. “Because I love you, and I don’t want you to ever feel in-between about that.” And as he put his arms around Dean once more, the airport and the lounge and the shower fell away and Dean was home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic officially puts me over 200,000 words published on Ao3 :)


End file.
